Life Begins Again

On Wednesday, May 22nd, my father died. It still doesn’t feel right. Maybe by the time I’m finished with this it will.

My father had been living with a degenerative neurological condition for a few years, and it recently became full-blown dementia. So, it had been coming. That and “I’m glad he’s not suffering anymore” are the main things you tell yourself in the aftermath. It’s true, of course. He had deteriorated rapidly and the last time I saw him he was barely even a human being anymore. I am glad he’s not “living” like that. But it still just felt like going through the motions of grief, like that’s what I was supposed to say and think and not just wish I had some more time with my dad.

A few people have asked if I was, among other things, angry. And I’ve never felt angry about it; I’m not even sure who to be angry with. God, I guess. I’m sure there’s a lot of blame that gets thrown at God in these situations. My dad took good care of himself, he was active for his age and, at least before he got too bad, was active socially, at least as active socially as any older man really is. So, who else but God could be at fault? I don’t know. I don’t think it’s anyone’s fault. It, sadly, just is a thing that happened.

The first thing that triggered all of this was a stroke a few years ago. He worked hard to get back to where he was, but he never quite made it. One of the first things that changed was he started talking about his father a lot. When I was growing up, there may as well have been an omerta around my grandfather. I don’t know when I could firmly say I even knew what his first name was, but it’s a lot more recent than should be acceptable. But, that’s what you get when you disappear. I heard more about him in the last five years than the previous twenty-seven combined. Maybe going back to his youth brought him some solace. Or maybe he knew the end was coming and he was simply reflecting on his life. Either way, I’m glad he learned something from his father, even if it was what not to do. Thank you for being better than that.

The first few days after he passed, it felt like I was put in the middle of a desert and told to find water. All of a sudden I forgot how to do anything, all the life lessons and experience and coping mechanisms were gone. I was a kid again who needed dad to tell me what to do. Only he wasn’t there and now there was a giant hole in the middle of my body. The days went by and slowly that hole started to fill back up and I pushed away the awful images of him in his last days with the lifetime of memories we had together. Sending him off in the funeral helped. No wonder people have been doing it since people existed.

My dad loved sports. While stating the obvious, this website, and, really, nearly every aspect of my personality, wouldn’t exist without him. Baseball was the first sport that really clicked with me, and I could tell he was so excited that I loved something he loved. I have vague memories of the first time we went to a Red Sox game. It was probably in the 1998-2000 range, because I was praying Pedro was going to be pitching. I don’t think he was. They played the Mariners, only Ken Griffey Jr. wasn’t playing, either hurt or on the Reds. Jay Buhner was still there, steadfast. I’m almost certain the Red Sox lost, but that didn’t matter. I had been to Fenway Park.

I had the good fortune of discovering the joys of football just as the NFL kicked off its 2001 season. I was allowed to stay up late to watch the Super Bowl that year. After the game, my dad called my uncles in disbelief. I didn’t understand why until he started telling me how lucky I was to be witnessing all this and not being stuck in the dark ages of Sullivan Stadium. For the Super Bowl the next year, we sat on the floor eating burgers he cooked on his new George Foreman grill. They weren’t good and the game sucked, but I remember it all the same. My biggest regret in life is going to my friend Kevin’s house for his Super Bowl party in February 2008. The Pats never lost a Super Bowl my dad and I watched together.

When I moved out, whenever one of our teams won a championship the first thing I would do would be to call Dad. The Celtics are on the verge of winning the NBA Finals, and I’ll have no one to call. My dad loved basketball. He played it growing up and he was thrilled when I started playing. His favorite story to tell was how he was a dishwasher in Bob Cousy’s basketball camp. As his mind deteriorated, he lost interest in most of the things he used to enjoy. He didn’t watch a lot of sports the last few years of his life, and most of the time didn’t even know who was in the Super Bowl. Mercifully, that meant he wasn’t subjected to the great Mac Jones vs. Bailey Zappe quarterback controversy of 2023. One of the last real conversations we had about sports was how impressed he was with Jayson Tatum. I’d like to think he’s been following along.

Like anyone who’s had to see someone suffer through dementia, I’m finding it too easy to only think about his later days: the forgetfulness, the meandering, the odd mood swings, eventually the loss of motor skills. But that would be an insult to everything he left behind. My dad was a kind, generous man who gave everything he had to his family, his friends, and his work. I’ll choose to remember going camping and him setting up the tent all by himself. Or him embarrassing me by being friendly with random strangers in elevators. Or him yelling at my sister to hurry up and get ready since we were running late. Or his poker nights with his friends when he’d let me sit on his lap and ask questions. Or him telling me he was proud of me despite the fact I haven’t done a whole lot to earn it. Those all sound a lot better than choosing to remember the shell that was left behind.

When something like this happens, you get kind of a bubble around you. You’re in a different dimension. The world keeps spinning without you. Everyone is nice to you, people reach out, you exist in this weird state of half-living where you breathe and move and think but not really. But then, before you’re ready, the bubble pops. Life starts again. The boss who was supportive and understanding is a bastard again. Your car breaks down or your train is late. You’ve been a zombie and now there’s a bunch of gross food in the fridge you have to clean out. You have to reenter the world without your first role model (yes, even before Tom Brady). What do you do? I guess just kind of keep going step by step. Put in enough boring, pointless, soul crushing days at work and it won’t hurt as much anymore, right? That sounds pretty bleak. Making grandiose proclamations about all the things I’ll do and places I’ll visit just seems like a way to disappoint yourself. Is it too cliche to say just try to live? Like, metaphorically live not just literally. Find a way to put a smile on your face. Anyone who knows me knows I can be reclusive and reticent. My dad was always asking me to make more of an effort to engage with people, maybe that’s how I can try to honor his memory. Trying. It sounds so minimal and yet so daunting. Trying to be better. Trying to keep everything he taught me alive. Trying to live up to him. Trying to make sure that whenever we meet again, he’s still proud of me.

On Wednesday, May 22nd, my father died. It still doesn’t feel right. Maybe one day it will.

Happy Father’s Day to my dad and all the dads of the world.

Rest in Peace Michael Francis Curran. I love you.